


That I May Cease To Be

by staringatstars



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archivist Jonathan Sims, Lonely!Martin, M/M, Memory Loss, Season 4 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:40:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22325713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staringatstars/pseuds/staringatstars
Summary: The Archivist waxes nostalgic about a past he can't quite remember. The avatar of the Lonely listens.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 14
Kudos: 155





	That I May Cease To Be

_Though her love had doomed her, Eurydice did not remain trapped in the cave forever._

_In time, she earned her freedom._

_And when, at last, she stepped out of the darkness and into the light of the sun once more, she came across a lyre player who held his golden instrument in his lap. She did not ask him why he did not play, nor ask him why he did not sing, but walked past him without a second thought, for she did not know him._

_He did not know her._

Though there were no atrocities to be witnessed from the high balcony of the institute, the Archivist maintained a silent vigil by the balustrade. His eyes, glowing a muted green in the darkness that had consumed the world, could See the empty swing sets, the barren streets bathed in old blood, without visitation, and so the Archivist remained stationary, unmoved by the tragedies playing endlessly for the satisfaction of the Ceaseless Watcher. 

There was no more laughter. No more smiles. No more joy.

Only fear. Only death. 

Even the handful of survivors who sought out the Magnus Institute for shelter would be consumed by one of the Powers eventually, and whichever god they fed, the Watcher would See. 

And it would drink its fill. 

“The day is gone,” the Archivist intoned flatly, standing hunched and small beneath the roiling mass of a crimson sky, “and all its sweets are gone.” 

_He is a man of threads. Pull them and he will come apart._

“I thought you didn’t like Keats.”

Had the Archivist not been preoccupied with _Taylor Higgins, 32, felled by the Hunt in a pub in Dublin_ or _Roy Foster, 26, was bitten and hospitalized at the age of two due to a spider bite and has lived with severe arachnophobia ever since_ he might have noticed his breaths beginning to steam or the fog rolling in well before an avatar of the Lonely appeared to join him.

There were crystals of frost clinging to strands of brown hair that could have been a rich chestnut once. The influence of his domain had left him faded, washed-out and colorless in a world where colors screamed. He wore a jumper and a pair of tan trousers, and something about his expression spoke of a deep sadness, an aching loneliness that had always existed, yet had once made him kind. 

“I don’t,” the Archivist responded thoughtfully. “Or rather, I don’t think I do.” When he chanced a glance at the avatar of the Lonely, it was to find him waiting with an air of expectation, and so the Archivist continued, “I knew a man once whose poetry bore some resemblance to the works of John Keats. I suppose I rather liked it in spite of that.”

Unexpectedly, the brown-haired man winced.

“What happened to him?” He asked softly.

Curious in spite of himself, the Archivist turned to face him. “To who?”

“The poet? Do you remember?” 

“He must have left.” There was a buzzing like static in the Archivist’s mind, causing him discomfort almost to the point of pain. It was frustrating that the Lonely protected its followers from the Beholding. Any attempts the Archivist may have made to Know him would result in nothing more than the sound of rushing waves and a severe headache. Even so, he couldn’t quite manage to keep the compulsion out of his voice when he demanded, **“Why are you here?”**

The wandering avatar appeared surprised for a moment, his brown eyes widening slightly as the compulsion hit him, but it wasn’t long before he relaxed. 

“I thought you might be lost.”

The Archivist nodded numbly, then wondered if he’d imagined his companion’s disappointment. 

“I’m sorry,” the words slipped out without permission. Oddly enough, he felt detached from them, as though they’d belonged to another puppeting his tongue, yet the avatar of the Lonely didn’t seem to be confused or even surprised by the outburst. 

He wearily shook his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I hope you’ll remember that, at least.” The screams only the Archivist could hear were usually overwhelming, the sensation of them filling his thoughts akin to drowning, but standing beside this brown-haired, jumper-wearing avatar, they were muted, somehow. Quiet. 

A tentative smile tugged at the corners of the man’s mouth. He seemed to be rather rusty at it, though the Archivist was certain he’d once smiled broadly and often. “I’d like to stay with you, if that’s alright.”

The Archivist hesitated. He resisted the urge to look up at the watching sky. “I’m not…” 

_Not human._

_Not kind._

“It’s okay, Jon,” the searcher, the poet, the avatar ever so gently brushed an errant tear from the Archivist’s cheek. “Neither am I.”

**Author's Note:**

> The Keats poems referenced are _When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be_ and _The Day Is Gone And All Its Sweets Are Gone._
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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